


To Stand Alone

by Icarus



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Independent Atlantis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus/pseuds/Icarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The siege of Atlantis has an unlikely, unassuming hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Stand Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DorothyOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorothyOz/gifts).



> Dorothyoz1939, this isn't your story. I mean, it is, but isn't. It's the prequel to your story, the set-up for the world for your story. It's complicated ... uh, see, there was this car accident, and it was totaled, and I was on crutches, and with work, and grad school, I had these two different prompts for two different SGA Secret Santa authors... and they somehow all combined into one story-? So that's this story. But your Sheppard/Cam is connected to this world, and in the works. (Thank you to Sian for the beta reading. You helped more than you realize.) 
> 
> Set during _Letters From Pegasus_ and _The Siege: Part I_ , veering slightly from there.

To Stand Alone  
by Icarus

 

Powerful blasts shudder the capsule of the defense satellite. The interior lights blink down to red emergency lighting then back up to soft white. Shrapnel rattles, pinging off the metal surface: the last trace of a Wraith Hive.

_One down...._

Peter Grodin has never killed anyone before, and no arguments, the Wraith are sentient. He could hear the cheers from Atlantis over the open comm link, like a distant radio show or TV left on in the background. But he's too busy to pay attention or shut down the distraction. From the depths of the tin can, he sets the automatic targeting … then fires the satellite railguns again.

Sparks. A second dimming of the lights. But no thunder of power this time.

"Uh...." He runs the diagnostic.

Rodney's hastily rerouted circuits on the outside of the capsule have burnt out. Peter's next words come out as a whimper once understanding hits. "The circuits are fried," he tells Rodney over the comm. He double and triple-checks, hesitating, spins in a helpless circle, looking upward as if the sky has an answer. Elizabeth's voice from the mission briefing echoes back to him: 

_That satellite is all that stands between us and the Wraith._

"We've lost," he says.

Just as the blasts of the Wraith Hive hit, cutting his world in two, Peter realizes what he should have done.

~*~*~ 

Folding his arms, Peter Grodin joined the others to stare in the dead silence at Zelenka's newly discovered long-range sensors. 

The cluster of triangular dots blipped closer: three Wraith Hive ships, in-bound to Atlantis. 

And they had no ZPM, not even after a year's search. Which meant no shields, no weapons chair.

In the “thank god for small favors” category of the day, at least the entire galaxy of Wraith ships hadn't turned their way. Wraith were predators, and these had kept their new feeding ground to themselves. Peter hoped that their greed would be their undoing. That would be the fairy tale ending: the evil Troll's plot backfiring. The Wraith hungered for Atlantis, of course--but they wanted the six billion lives of Earth more. 

“There.” Peter ducked down and peered at the screen, pointing, one hand on Zelenka's shoulder. “What's that?” 

Zelenka shifted the new sensors to a wider angle, showing the whole of the Atlantean solar system. It was larger than Earth's with an entire band of outer captured planets. Situated between the two biggest gas giants … Peter frowned at a tiny, out of place object.

Rodney answered with hardly glance at it. “It's a moon, a satellite of some kind. Look, we don't time for scientific curiosity. We--” He made a sweeping gesture. “--and most distressingly me, are about to become lunch for soul-sucking aliens!” 

Peter coursed around Zelenka, who faded back to allow him to sit. He didn't have time for Rodney's self-absorption right now. Peter's eyes flicked from sensors to keypads, and drew the sensors away from the Hives to focus on... “There's something very odd about the placement of that moon... mathematically, I mean.” 

“I don't see what...” Rodney began, then interrupted himself with a thoughtful little: “...huh.” 

“That is odd,” Zelenka agreed, leaning closer with a squint, glasses slipping to the end of his nose. “Mathematically improbable.”

“Improbable? Try impossible,” Rodney said, voice edging towards delight, a tone that proved he was every bit as brilliant as he claimed and had already grasped the implications. 

Something so mathematically perfect could not be natural. Peter tapped his knuckle to his lower lip, trying to tamp down any unwarranted enthusiasm. He still had data to examine, tests to run, before his hopes could be confirmed.

“Hate to break the fascination with _math_ ,” Major Sheppard said, thumbing back towards the conference room, “but Elizabeth's called a meeting, can't imagine why.” 

Peter waved him away, eyes not lifting from the sensor readings. His hands flicked over the familiar Ancient controls as he pulled up page upon page of Ancient on another screen. “I'll be there in a moment.” And he meant it, however unlikely that would be.

~*~*~ 

“I want options, people,” Elizabeth's voice carried, somehow managing to sound both shaky and upbeat. 

Very upbeat, considering Rodney's best suggestion had been a databurst to Earth. It was not a good sign when your only strategy was to call to people who can't help. Opening the gate for a split second would use the final trace of energy in their last ZPM, but would preserve all their research. And warn Earth about the Wraith. 

“How much can we send?” Elizabeth asked.

“In one point three seconds?” Rodney said. “Everything. We'd be able to send personal messages, video, whatever you like.” 

“Good. That would help morale,” Elizabeth said. 

Morale. Facing three Hives, each a fleet in and of itself, while Atlantis had only ninety-seven people remaining, and perhaps a dozen Jumpers to defend the city. With a ZPM they could have had the shields and the weapons chair: even just Sheppard could defend Atlantis. Without it....

The scientists began clacking shut their laptops, out of time, Peter Grodin pushed himself away from the readings and stepped in. He was as sure as he was going to be.

Before Grodin could even open his mouth, Rodney interrupted with a smug stab of his pointer finger, “You've found a Lagrangian point satellite.” 

“Yes,” Peter began. “It--”

Zelenka turned to Rodney, “Perhaps a small base, housing some of the long-range sensors?” 

“Ah, that would make sense,” Rodney nodded. 

“No, no,” Peter said with a flash of irritation at the pecking order of the science division. As an administrator he wasn't considered a 'pure' enough scientist. “It's not.” 

The whole room turned towards him. Yes, the chicken at the bottom had spoken.

“It's a weapons platform.” 

~*~*~ 

The acrid smell, the jolt of coughs, wakes Peter. His heartbeat's slow, surging like the ocean. Sparks light the smoke.

He's been hit.

The Wraith Hive... he remembers. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them. Then thanks his luck: Whoever gets a second chance?

He's floating slightly above the floor. The artificial gravity circuits must have broken. He reaches for his radio earpiece but finds it gone. Black droplets float in midair, oil or blood, he can't tell. His legs—oh. He decides not to look again; the sight leaves him weak. Blood then. Why doesn't it hurt? He pulls himself along the walls, thinking he's damned lucky there's no gravity after all.

He reroutes the power, and does what he should have done in the first place. A crazy risk. It gives him a flash of insight into McKay. The man seems so sure of himself—but he isn't. It just doesn't matter if one is wrong when one will be dead regardless.

The second round of blasts flings him like rag doll bouncing off the floor, ricocheting against the wall. 

~*~*~ 

The cloaked Jumper floats above the remaining arm of Lagrangian point defense system, right where Rodney had spacewalked to make his final repairs. “Grodin...?” Rodney radios. 

Four more blasts tear from one of the satellite fragments. 

A fragment. A _fragment_ had fired!

Viewed from above the shattered satellite, the blast is one of the most beautiful sights Rodney McKay has ever seen. (Mentally, he snaps his fingers--of course the satellite didn't have to be in one piece! So long as his repaired power circuits hold up, the trigger mechanisms connect through subspace. Atlantis' ATA activation units don't even require sensors.)

He turns to Sheppard to see John's expression of awed joy. Miller in the copilot's chair blinks in astonishment. The third and final Hive trails debris, listing with a loss of attitude control.

"Go!" Rodney points in the direction of the Hive.

"On it," says John, turning the jumper to follow.

"We're in a Puddlejumper!" Miller exclaims.

"Correction: we're in a _cloaked_ Puddlejumper," Rodney says, finger raised. He staggers where he stand, grabbing John's chair to steady himself. Inertial dampeners don't help spatial disorientation.

"They won't get Atlantis," John says, his jaw set and determined as they level out.

~*~*~ 

Another spray of debris patters off his tin can, creating more shuddering explosions. Peter hums, comfortable, however, comfortably numb…

...did he cause that second wave of debris? He remembers doing something. It's all slipping away.

~*~*~ 

Guilty, Peter knew that in all fairness, he should have left the research on the satellite to Dr. Brenden Gall. It was Brenden's responsibility to log in-system data, and his discovery to make. But Peter read Ancient, and that had saved them all precious time. They would've had to wait for the translation software to reveal those beautiful, beautiful numbers … numbers that described a weapons platform that was deadly. 

“How deadly?” Elizabeth asked, one eyebrow raised. She was used to her scientists exaggerating. “Can it take on a Hive ship?” 

“All three Hives,” Zelenka gushed. “Once repaired.” 

Peter squirmed. That was optimistic. 

She turned to Peter, who nodded and agreed in barely measured, urgent tones, “It is designed to protect Atlantis.”

“Can we fix it? It's Ancient technology.”

“It's ten thousand years old! Chances are it only lacks power,” Rodney said. “And that we can provide with only one--” 

“--two,” Zelenka corrected, two fingers raised. 

“--okay, maybe two naqada generators,” Rodney said. So confident, though they had no measurements or sensor data, just schematics. It was an educated guess. 

Always the diplomat, Peter didn't undermine Rodney with the truth. “If we can fix it,” he emphasized the If, “we can only fix it there,” he told Elizabeth, holding her gaze. “It's worth a try.” 

Elizabeth nodded at Peter's assurance. They'd been friends since he'd found her in the SGC commissary, alone, the new and unwelcome replacement to General Hammond. He'd only just joined the Stargate program, but considered ostracism unkind. Then Daniel Jackson had shamed everyone else by joining them.

Major Sheppard stood like a shadow behind Rodney's chair, arms folded. “I'm going with you,” Sheppard said, quiet and intense. 

Rodney sputtered with laughter. “I need technicians, not--”

“No arguments, Rodney.”

Elizabeth tilted her head with her okay-I'm-not-going-to-argue acquiescence: everyone knew to pick their battles with Sheppard. She added, “I think Peter should do the honors as well, since he found our satellite.” 

“Of course!” Rodney said with a perfunctory wave. “I need him: he's a mechanical engineer.” 

Peter was nonplussed, though pleased. That was high praise from Rodney.

~*~*~ 

"Atlantis, the second Hive's down, the third damaged. We're going in."

 _"Going in to do what, exactly?"_ Elizabeth's voice cuts across the comm.

"I don't know," Rodney admits.

_"Return to base. A Puddlejumper can't take on an entire Hive!"_

The trouble is, no one ever understands how fast Rodney could think. Even as he offers Elizabeth nothing, possibilities play out in his mind's eye. Damage means gases, gases mean-- He calls up the HUD, and keys in sequences to the Jumper. It fires charged particles at— _yes!_ The gases leaking from the Hive are now displayed in technicolor.

"Pretty," John comments, sarcastic.

"Yes, yes, shut up."

Blue dust particles, green... could be methane, more likely oxygen, the Wraith have to breathe too, and—ah, red hydrogen, right by the green.

"Fire there!" Rodney stabs a finger towards the Hive.

"Where?" John frowns.

Rodney rolls his eyes. Why does he have to be surrounded by idiots? "There! At the red of course! The red _highly flammable_ hydrogen. Light it up!"

Sheppard doesn't have to be told twi--well, three times. John fires. 

The drones, a stream of golden streaks, launch from the jumper. The red ball of mist leaking around the core of the Wraith's hydrogen reactor detonates in secondary and tertiary explosions, like so many fireworks quickly snuffed by the dead of space. Around it, a halo of Wraith Darts spin sideways, upside down, and then catch fire and explode. 

But now, cloak or not, the surviving Darts know their position.

~*~*~ 

In a bedroom as neat as a pin, with sheets one could bounce a quarter off of, Peter straightened a chair that wasn't really crooked ... then slumped to his bed. He laced his fingers together.

Tapped his steepled thumbs. Get some rest, Elizabeth had said, sending him away from his endless analysis of the satellite data.

Everyone, including Elizabeth, had forgotten this was Peter's first ever off-world mission. He opted not to remind them, because he didn't want to think on it himself. Now he was supposed to "get some rest."

He didn't want to whinge—he didn't approve of whinging—but his first off-world mission had a lot on the line. If he failed, every man, woman, and child in Atlantis could die. (Child? Oh god, Jinto....) He didn't consider it unfair, exactly. Rather he wished that he'd gone off-world before now. To Menea, for example, to negotiate for tava beans. Where the most dire consequence would be that they might have to go elsewhere for beans.

He ran his hand through his hair, gave a self-deprecating laugh, and wondered why he'd ever come to the Pegasus galaxy. Though he would never wish to be anywhere but Atlantis. The galaxy it was in, however, he could do without.

Not for the first time Peter wished they'd had a ZPM so that they could fly Atlantis back to Earth. It had at one time rested in Antarctica. Then he could rejoin the SGC's mission to protect their world and accomplish something. Here ... he didn't know what he could do for the people of this galaxy. Their situation was overwhelming. Even in Atlantis they could barely defend themselves...

...and wouldn't defend themselves, unless he succeeded at the Lagrangian point satellite tomorrow. Which brought his thoughts full circle.

He cycled in this vein for quite some time. Finally, he ignored Elizabeth's advice and returned to memorizing satellite schematics.

~*~*~ 

_"Here am I sitting in my tin can...."_ Peter hums.

Aftershocks tremble through the capsule. Or that was his body shivering? Peter can no longer tell.

For someone well and truly doomed, he shouldn't be so happy.

~*~*~

“The third Hive is down!” Miller declares.

_"Congratulations, gentlemen. Return to base."_

"Trying!" Sheppard shouts, pulling the jumper into a dive to avoid a Wraith Dart. "Jumpers aren't the most maneuverable...."

"We have to return to the satellite," Rodney says in sudden realization.

"What satellite?" John says. "It's destroyed. You said it yourself."

"Peter Grodin told us that the power conduits I fixed were fried," Rodney says. He squeezes the back of Sheppard's seat in reaction to what he'd overlooked. "For it to fire, someone had to have repaired it manually, which is impossible unless he rerouted a different, completely separate power source. God. Separate system-- There's only one. He must've bypassed the secondary power supply, and used the life support to fire—" He blinks. "—it's what I would've done."

Miller takes a sharp breath. "But that means...."

"He's shut off his own life support, yes. Thank you for finally catching up!"

"How long?" Sheppard snaps.

"No idea. An hour of oxygen, tops." Rodney looks around the Jumper with panic. “But he'll freeze first.” 

“On it.” John taps his radio. "Atlantis, this is Sheppard. Peter Grodin just saved the city. He might be still alive, losing life support, surrounded by a hornet's nest of angry Wraith. Request permission to—"

Elizabeth didn't hesitate. _"Go!"_

"In the meantime, let's get some jumpers in the air to defend the city from stray Darts."

 _"No need, Colonel Sheppard."_ That's Doctor Zelenka's steady voice. _"They are short-range fighters, not transports like the Jumper. The Langrangian point defense satellite is out of range from Atlantis."_

No need to waste ammo then. With nothing but gas giants out there, they'd suffocate in space. Rodney smothers the sympathetic horror.

The Jumper recloaks, and curves the back towards the satellite.

~*~*~ 

Bates emerged from the conference room—and nearly bumped into Peter, who was outside waiting his turn to record a message home. 

“Sorry,” Bates mumbled to the ground, edging around. Peter watched him leave: Bates' step seemed lighter, his shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. 

Since the announcement of the data burst, Atlantis had buzzed with speculation and gossip. Sheppard had refused to send one to family: was he an orphan? He'd recorded a cryptic message for some Cameron Mitchell--who was that? Rodney had locked himself alone in his room, either dictating ground-breaking Physics or having a meltdown (depending on who you asked). Everyone learned Elizabeth had left a boyfriend on Earth: who knew? 

Inside the softly lit conference room, Ford was rummaging behind the camera, hardly visible over the table. “Hang on just a sec... battery....”

The room seemed quiet and highly charged, like an interrogation room, or perhaps a confessional. Peter wasn't Catholic, but he'd been, as many in his family were.

Ford stopped fiddling with the camera and pushed a handkerchief towards him, wariness in his eyes. “In case you need it.” 

“No.” Peter sat down to face the camera. “Not likely.”

Ford ran through the drill: “You need to state your name and position—and rank if applicable—so they don't have to look you up from just a picture. Then say the name of who the video's for. At the beginning, not later,” he added with a hint of frustration. “And nothing classified.”

“Done a few of these, have you?” 

“Sixteen hours straight. Are you doing this in some language besides English?” Ford asked. 

“No, I'm British,” Peter explained. He squirmed in his seat, trying to get comfortable. 

“Good. Zelenka did his in Czechoslovakian and I couldn't tell that it was all classified.” Ford grinned. “He had to re-record the whole thing.” 

Czech, actually, but Peter didn't have the heart to correct him. The scientists harried Ford all the time.

“What if I--?” Didn't know what to say, said something he regretted... 

Ford caught on. “You can do as many takes as you want.” 

Peter cleared his throat. It felt like his dissertation defense … largely because he was sending a message home to his father to be judged. 

“My name is Doctor Peter Grodin, Head of Wormhole Physics--” 

Ford shook his head. 

Oh, right. _Wormhole._ This was harder than he'd expected. Peter corrected, “Head of, er, Physics, Chief adviser to Dr. Elizabeth Weir, our, um, science expedition's leader.” He emphasized the titles a bit more than he would if it were for anyone but his father.

He paused then. What was he supposed to say? I might die soon, horribly. We have no recourse and no defense. We are alone in an alien universe. If I die, you won't know; I will just disappear. 

Then it hit him what mattered. 

Atlantis.

~*~*~ 

The satellite is as dark as a womb. 

He's curled around himself, turning in null gravity. So cold. 

The cold … without power the temperature will drop, is dropping, to the absolute zero of space. 

Shuddering, Peter stretches, opens to the chill, swims in midair … then bump-bumps against the wall. 

He crawls across the side, reading the wall like braille, brittle-cold, following memory, a mental map of schematics. 

Numb hands smooth along the icy metal wall, up, down—then suddenly dip into an open access panel … they repeat the repairs from before, awkward, like they're in mittens. 

… the red lights blink on, flick off into blackness. 

Then they steady. Back online.

~*~*~ 

_“Grodin, come in....”_

The blue dust of the debris field looks like fog, but the central section of the satellite is still lit like a power grid with fireflies snapping around it. John sees the lights along its sides through the dust, very much like runway lights coming up on an aircraft carrier sitting quietly in the middle of the Pacific ocean. There are no Darts to be found.

There's also no space dock anymore. No way to connect to the station. Just twisted, melted metal and shards floating in a crazy orbit.

"Thank god,” Rodney breathes from where he still stands behind John's seat. "It's running. And, okay, a bit of a mess, but we expected that."

"We did?" Miller asks.

"That was the royal 'We.' And I have a plan." Rodney taps his head. "Genius, remember? I'll just need to spacewalk."

"I'll do the spacewalk," John interrupts. Firmly.

Once floating outside, attached by a mere string, John decides he hates the helplessness of spacewalks … until the magnetic, awkward boots hit the side of the station. Then he sticks like Spiderman. 

John couldn't be more grateful and relieved when he hears Grodin's off-key humming.

~*~*~ 

A warm arm under his head … and Sheppard's voice in his ear, wry and amused. "You're getting those songs all mixed up."

“Songs?” Peter reaches for his radio to reply.

"Easy, easy...." Sheppard says, batting away his hand. "See, that one song is David Bowie. That's some great music. The other one...." Peter feels fabric wrapping over his shoulders, a dome of a bubble closing over him, damping Sheppard's voice so that he sounds like he's talking through a tin can. "...now that's Pink Floyd. I used to get high to that song in high school."

Peter laughs, though it came out as a weak, shaky breath.

"I'm going to live?" Peter asks with surprise.

"We'll talk about that later." Sheppard pauses for a beat, looking down in the direction of Peter's legs. "This ... might hurt."

In the next instant, someone sticks Peter's legs in a white-hot light socket. 

~*~*~ 

The limp body of Peter Grodin sags into John's hands. Touching his pulse in alarm, John finds it clear but thready. Peter had passed out then. 

That's probably for the best. He struggles to get Peter's mangled legs the rest of the way into the spacesuit.

~*~*~ 

Peter wakes to Doctor McKay's shout: "You were only supposed to pass him the spacesuit through the supply chute!"

"I fit just fine."

"Ripped space suit! Certain death—do you understand the risk you took?"

"He was nearly gone," Sheppard growls. "I made it, didn't I?"

Peter's on the floor of the jumper, back resting against something warm; Sheppard's arm wraps tightly around Peter's chest, clutching around to grip his shoulder. He can feel Sheppard's heartbeat through their thin T-shirts.

"Hang in there...." Sheppard's face presses, scratchy against his cheek. Callused fingers feels the pulse under his chin. "Just hang in there, Peter."

~*~*~ 

The celebrating voices within the gate room hush when they see Peter ... the world blinks … 

...then the rattle of a gurney jangles underneath him, strangely vivid, pure unfiltered sensory data, underwater-distant as four men rush him to sick bay. Sheppard runs alongside. There's Rodney. And Miller. It's so warm in Atlantis compared to the satellite, the jumper … Elizabeth hovers over him in medical … Peter opens his mouth to try to reassure her but doesn't know what to say. He's sick with fear all of the sudden, more fear than he'd had in the in orbit, actually. Now he has a hope that he might live.

Has he come this close only to die now? Used up his second chances, has he? One receives three chances when one lives in a fairy tale. Wasn't that the rule?

Doctor Beckett replaces Elizabeth in his peripheral vision. Then a clear plastic mask cuts between them. Frighteningly, Beckett has turned away. Nurse Biro places the mask over Peter's face, putting an end to his worries. As a scientist, he knows no one gives oxygen to the dead.

~*~*~ 

He wakes to discover Sergeant Bates scowling by his bed, hands folded. Reassured, Peter fades out, eyes closing again. He blinks, what seems just moments later, but finds Elizabeth there now, reading, face lit by the blue light of her laptop. She doesn't look up and he doesn't disturb her.

The next time it's Sheppard, who notices Peter's awake. "Hey...." Sheppard says, his face warming to a smile.

"Alive...." Peter croaks. Trying to tell him. He is, right?

"Yep." Sheppard sounds cheery. Certain. 

Good.

~*~*~ 

It was hard to get Doctor Beckett alone in sick bay, especially with so many visitors. 

“I can still feel my legs,” Peter murmured, concerned. “Like they're really there.”

Beckett's face softened with sadness. “Aye, that you will, son. That you will.” He continued in that Scottish brogue. “But you have good upper body strength! For a scientist, you really are in remarkable condition.” 

Scots. They always told you to look on the bright side, which only made matters worse. Toughen up, they implied. Peter regretted mentioning anything. On Earth—no. He decided not to think about treatments available on Earth. 

~*~*~ 

Peter's laptop battery was on the verge of dying. He'd wanted to make himself useful again, now that he could sit up … paperwork and the business of Atlantis didn't stop, just because three Hive ships had tried to use them as a shortcut to Earth. 

He planned to do his own research as well, on the Ancients and Ascension. Peter didn't want to Ascend, at least not yet. But having come so close to dying, he was certain going beyond death was a better option.

McKay blustered into the room, his chin cocked high--of course he ignored the fact that Peter had work to do. As he talked, his hands tumbled in circling loops, a study in kinetic energy. 

"We've got a kind of cool, Professor X thing ready for you. You won't be able to go on away missions anymore, but you didn't do those anyways. Doctor Zelenka and I have been working on it in our 'copious' spare time. Think of it as a thank you from the science department, for, you know," McKay seemed to melt into a puddle of sincere gratitude, “...saving our lives.”

Every now and then, McKay could be heart-rendingly sweet. Brow furrowed in confusion though, Peter said, "I-I don't know what to say."

McKay's bravado recovered, and he held up his palm like a gracious king refusing his due. "No need."

"No. I mean... who's Doctor X?"

" _Professor_ X. He's a mutant—with superpowers—who's paraplegic." Which explained precisely nothing.

Fortunately, Major Sheppard arrived to save him from American cultural references. Or make it worse: he had even chances. The major placed his hands on both of Rodney's shoulders, forestalling Rodney from saying something just as inane, raising a stare from Peter. Sheppard usually wasn't very tactile. "Peter isn't paraplegic. He's just lost his legs."

"It'll be great," McKay said, patting Sheppard's hand before breaking away. "You'll see."

"They mean well," Sheppard apologized. He sat on the edge of Peter's bed. "How's it hanging? You're a hero, you know."

"I didn't do anything … I mean, I didn't do anything anyone wouldn't have done." 

"That's not what I heard." 

The only thing that made Grodin a hero was that he'd succeeded. But he very nearly hadn't. He couldn't accept the accolades.

"What they built for you is pretty cool," Sheppard said with a boyish bounce, changing the subject. "It's an electronic chair you can control _with your mind._ " He said it with exactly the right amount of dry humor and stood to pull around a largish wheelchair with flat sides. "Just like the comic book character."

"Oh, Professor X is a comic book?" Peter refused any help into the chair, same as his trips for physical therapy. He set aside the laptop, edged over the bed, and swung into the new chair before arranging a blanket across his lap.

Sheppard handed him the laptop. "Well, there are movies too, but they aren't as good," he admitted. "You can use it when I'm not around to take you home."

"Home?"

"If you're ready."

“I thought there was a staff meeting?” Peter queried, hopeful. 

“Most people don't want to go to meetings....” Sheppard ventured. 

“I—” Peter said, then caught on to Sheppard's hedging. “So there is one,” he said, a knowing smile starting.

Sheppard whined, “I just got out of that meeting because I was taking you home.” But he turned the wheelchair in the right direction, with a put-upon slump. 

He stopped them in the wide hallway. 

“Okay. I didn't want to test this around Carson's medical equipment. Don't tell Rodney! I promised I'd just steer you to your room.” He grinned, and said, straightening. “So: Think of where you are in Atlantis.”

A HUD display appeared around Peter. “Wow.” 

He found it had a life-signs detector built in, yellow moving dots showing where everyone happened to be in Atlantis. The available transporters blinked green. Then Peter discovered it also connected to the control room. Stunned at the technical expertise—this was no weekend lark—Peter called up screen after screen, showing long-range sensors, Atlantis' daily logs, the Ancient database....

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Sheppard said, still grinning. “You'll make us late for the meeting. Unless, of course, you don't want to go anymore.” 

He never gave up. Peter explained, “I just want to be useful again.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Sheppard relented, understanding. “So, just think: 'forward.'”

Peter tried it, anxious to reach the meeting on time. The chair lurched, then whizzed down the hall. 

_Too fast, too fast!_ The doorway narrowed up ahead, _help! Stop!_ Peter thought.

The chair slammed to a stop, almost throwing Peter onto the ground. 

_Ah._ Mentally-controlled chair. He had it now. With a mental command, _go, SLOWLY,_ he emphasized, he eased the chair forward in a crawl. Sheppard caught up to him. 

“Glad we didn't try that by the balcony,” Sheppard said. 

As they trundled towards the conference room, Peter considered the engineering requirements of the wheelchair. It was only feasible if... wait.

“But I don't have the ATA gene.” The chair stopped. “The gene therapy didn't take.” 

“Blood transfusions—AB-negative. I was basically your IV for a week,” Sheppard admitted with a rueful nod. Peter shook his head in shock. He owed these people everything. “Carson says that he's improved the gene therapy, but ... I like to think it worked this time because you've got more of my blood than I do.” Sheppard winked.

~*~*~ 

When the techs in the control room caught sight of Peter, one turned around, brightened, and started clapping. That caught everyone's eyes around the room. Others took it up—and soon everyone was cheering, clapping, with even a few wolf whistles. Peter felt both mortified and happy. He covered his eyes, then slid his palms to hold his face in his hands, laughing at himself. 

He hadn't considered till now that he was still in pyjamas, an oversight that suggested Elizabeth had been just humoring him by allowing him to work. 

A marine Peter recognized chucked him on the arm. “...saved Atlantis, my _man!_ ” 

As Peter rolled his new chair into the conference room, Elizabeth's expression lifted in pleased surprise. 

Sheppard strode in behind him. “Apparently destroying three Hives and saving the city isn't enough for Peter.” He tilted his head in a shrug, palms spread in a helpless gesture. “He wants to get back to paperwork.” He wrinkled his nose.

Elizabeth's smile turned incandescent, and the senior staff laughed.

To her right, Zelenka beamed at Peter, eyes shining, his fuzzy hair lit like a halo in the sunbeams. A pink-faced McKay covered his embarrassed happiness behind a coffee cup, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. Carson took in the wheelchair with nodding appreciation. Ford was grinning like a fool … and Peter realized that he was grinning, too, and just as foolishly, he was certain.

Surprisingly seated right next to Bates, her nemesis, Teyla gazed over Peter with serene pleasure. Simple and sincere, she merely said, “It is good to see you well.” 

Bates nodded his respect and stood, stepping away from his place beside Elizabeth. “I think you need your seat.”

“He brought his own,” Sheppard said. 

“That's my chair. Wait--” Rodney accused. “You promised!” 

“He's an engineer. He could figure it out on his own.” 

“I just wanted to...” Rodney deflated. “...fine.” 

Seated on the other side of Bates, it startled Peter to discover Halling was also at the senior staff meeting. And not in a visitors' chair. Halling nodded to him as an equal. 

But Peter sensed that changes—big ones—had occurred while he'd been recovering. He slanted a sharp look at Elizabeth, not at all happy to have not been apprised. Though admittedly, he'd been absorbed in his own problems.

It caught up to him then that everyone had been thanking him for _“saving Atlantis_ ,” saving _“the city.”_ There had been not one mention of Earth. 

Sheppard crossed to Rodney, settling against him with a hard thump that jostled Rodney's coffee arm. “Hey! We don't have a replacement for that yet!” Rodney brushed at his wet sleeve and shooed him like an over-friendly tomcat. 

The meeting returned to the topic at hand. Bates spoke to Halling, evidently continuing, “If any of your men want to be trained, we'll be glad for the help.” He turned to Doctor Beckett. “Doc, they should get the ATA gene if they can, too. I need Jumper pilots more than anything.”

Peter blinked at Bates' about face, then turned thoughtful.

Sheppard added, helping himself to Rodney's remaining coffee, “Agreed.” Rodney huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn't stop Sheppard from finishing it.

Halling answered in his pedantic way, with a slow formal nod. “There are those among us who weary of farming and wish to fight the Wraith.” 

Elizabeth leaned forward. “What about ammunition? How can we replenish our supply?” 

“We can cast bullets, that poses no difficulty,” Zelenka chirped up. “The heavier armaments... well, C4 is easy.” 

“Sure.” Rodney snorted. “If you have an oil refinery or a lifetime supply of vaseline, which we don't."

“So we need oil for modern weaponry,” John forestalled him, hand on Rodney's arm. “How hard can it be?” 

Rodney shot him a disdainful glance. “Hard.”

“The Genii have it.” 

“We'll see about finding, extracting, and refining oil.” Elizabeth cut off this argument at the pass. “I don't think any of us believes this will happen in a day,” she added, fingers spread to calm Rodney. “How is our Wraith disguise holding up?” 

“My destruction of the third Hive ship turned out to be a bit too thorough,” Rodney gazed at his nails while Sheppard rolled his eyes, “but the satellite neatly sliced and diced the other two. We were able to salvage parts that, with a few more adjustments, will disguise Atlantis' EM-signatures to match those of a Wraith Hive. Hopefully, anyone who floats through the neighborhood will assume all the human life-signs are just food.”

Zelenka wrinkled his nose. “Atlantis systems will be a little bit less efficient....” 

Rodney made a helpless gesture that looked a great deal like Sheppard's.

“And...?” Elizabeth paused, and drew a breath. 

“Any reply to our data burst?” she pressed.

The meeting fell silent. 

Rodney licked his lips. It had been his project. He answered, “It connected. They got it.” 

“Earth isn't gonna help us,” John said. 

Elizabeth said, “I didn't think it was likely but....” 

“If they didn't answer—which they didn't! I didn't miss the call!—the most reasonable, likely explanation is that they did something to deplete their last ZPM,” Rodney ended.

“We may even have used every trace of power on our gate over,” Zelenka concurred. “It was open longer than it was meant to be.” 

“It's enough that they know we're alive,” John insisted. “What I need right now--” He leaned back, lifted his foot and brought his boot, heel out, right onto the table. Dirt scattered around it. “See that?” He pointed to the ball of the heel. “That's a hole. And this is my best pair. There's nothing left in supply, and these are two sizes too big.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bates pulled his boot off and placed it, heel on the table. “Try this. I have no tread left. I could use these for fucking ice skating when it's wet in here—no offense, ma'am,” he said hurriedly to Elizabeth. 

“None taken.” She was pinching the bridge of her nose. She rubbed her forehead, and said, dropping her hand, “Okay. Rubber supplies take precedence over oil. Annnd... a cobbler.” She drummed her fingers on the table.

“We have two shoemakers at the settlement,” Halling offered. 

“Their boots are warm. I'll take it,” Bates said. 

“I'd like a little bit more of a tread,” Sheppard complained.

The team wandered off topic, comparing the relative merits of various types of footwear. Rodney dismissed Teyla's half-serious suggestion of sandals, citing dangers to his circulation and future varicose veins. Doctor Beckett gave his earnest medical opinion of Rodney's concerns, claiming sandals reduced fungus. Sheppard nixed sandals _and bunny slippers_ for away missions.

They made none of the usual mentions of Earth footwear to Teyla, or failed explanations of high heels and fashion. It was all about Atlantis. Their future. 

Peter realized: That's why he was a hero. 

He'd done nothing different from other missions; they'd even blown up Hive ships before. But they'd needed this victory to believe in their future. A future that didn't require Earth.

As the happy voices of his team washed over him, Peter philosophized about Hector on the walls of Troy. Achilles would have been a hero because of who he was, no matter where he was, like Major Sheppard. But Hector became a legend solely because of where and when he lived.

~*~*~ 

The camera stared at Peter like a blank eye.

“My name is Doctor Peter Grodin, Head of Wormhole Physics--” Ford shook his head. Oh, right. _Wormhole._ Peter corrected, “Head of, er, Physics, Chief adviser to Dr. Elizabeth Weir, our, um, science expedition's leader.” 

He paused. What was he supposed to say? 

Then it hit him what mattered. 

“Dad,” Peter looked at the camera like it was a person, like he could speak to whomever was on the other side. “You can't imagine what it's been like. I've made discoveries that would make Einstein cry. None of us will ever be able to publish, it's all classified, but that doesn't matter.” _Atlantis..._ he almost said, but replaced it with, “This place... if you could turn music into art, into physical form ... it would be Atlantis.” 

Ford gave him a tired look. 

They re-recorded: “--it would be ... my home.”


End file.
